


Fic or Treat

by Odamaki



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fic or Treat, Gen, Halloween, Kid Fic, Kid John, Kid Sherlock, Kidlock, M/M, Prompt Fic, Pumpkins, Witchcraft, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 06:49:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5119076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Odamaki/pseuds/Odamaki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of ficlets written on Tumblr for Halloween 2015, each inspired by a prompt. :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Skitter

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE SEE THE START OF EACH CHAPTER FOR SPECIFIC CONTENTS AND WARNINGS.
> 
> (I do not give permission to repost, reproduce or archive this fan work in part or in it's entirety to any other website except with prior written consent provided by myself, nor any profit be made from any of these works under any circumstances whatsoever.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is generally very capable but there are a few things he's not keen on, and there's one thing he's utterly hopeless about. And then there's Greg Lestrade.

They meet in Mycroft’s office at the Diogenes, or at least in the room that he tells Lestrade is his personal office. It isn’t; it’s a shared space but Mycroft figures that Lestrade has no need to be made aware of this.

He’s waiting for him; Lestrade will no doubt be ushered in at any minute now and Mycroft is making himself at home. He eases into the chair, rearranges the pens and then opens the top drawer of the desk. He glances in and then slams it shut again at once with a little cry of alarm.

“Oh no. Oh no!” He peddles away on the swivel chair, turning pale and looking around for salvation. Automatically he reaches for his phone to call Anthea only to recall that she’s not working today. He frets.

‘I’ll have to deal with it myself,’ Mycroft thinks and then, more helplessly, ‘but I _can’t!’_

He doesn’t even have so much as a glass or a newspaper to roll up. “Spray, I need some kind of spray,” he tells himself, getting up just as the door opens and Lestrade is shooed inside.

“Hello- you alright?” Lestrade says, noting his expression at once.

Mycroft is frankly glad to see him, but now all the options are too varied. He could pretend everything is fine and continue- _but what if it finds the keyhole, oh God-_ or he could send Lestrade out for bug spay and remain here to keep and eye on it-  _alone by yourself? let’s please not, thank you-_ he could tell Lestrade to remain here and go for bug spray himself, and Mycroft thinks this may well be the best option-  _except if he opens the drawer and it bites him and he dies and oh God, what do I do?_

“Mycroft?”

“My drawers are full of spiders,” Mycroft blurts, panicking. Both of Lestrade’s eyebrows go up.

“I’ve heard of ants in your pants but…”

“No there! _Here_! In my _desk_!” Mycroft hisses, jigging and pointing at the filthy nest of arachnids in question. All dignity now forgotten, he adds, “ _Do something_!”

Lestrade looks bemused and a touch worried. “How big are we talking?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t stop to check- it had legs!” Mycroft throws back, clutching at his waistcoat. “Just get rid of it and don’t get bitten. I don’t know what it is. It had red on it.”

“It had red on it?!” Lestrade echoes, not liking the sound of that at all. “Jesus. Maybe we should call someone.”

“It could escape.” It might already have escaped, Mycroft thinks, it could be anywhere. It could be on him. Lestrade, conversely, seems less worried suddenly.

“Alright, it’s ok. I’ll have a look. You go and stand by the door.”

Mycroft gratefully retreats, hovering with one hand on the door knob in case of an emergency escape. Lestrade leans down and pulls off a shoe, then rolls up the police folder he’s brought with him. So armed, he bravely approaches the desk. He cracks the drawer carefully, the desk lamp arranged so as to shed light straight down into the drawer.

“Be careful!” Mycroft snaps, despite himself. _What if it spits?_ His brain supplies. _What if it jumps?_

Lestrade leans over to inspect the beast and then pauses. “I think it’s dead…” he says.

_Biding it’s time._

Then Lestrade chuckles and before Mycroft can stop him, he puts his hand into the drawer. Mycroft gives a yelp of horror and half opens the door.

Lestrade laughs. “It’s a really dangerous one, this one,” he says, and Mycroft can hardly look because he has it in his hand, the lunatic, and it’s hairy and the legs, oh sweet Mother Mary, the legs- “If you’re under three and likely to find it a choking hazard.”

Lestrade drops it on the desk. It makes a very inorganic noise. Mycroft peeks.

It’s fucking rubber.

He’s too relieved even to be angry. He sags against the door, closing it, utterly embarrassed.

“Let’s-” he clears his throat. “You- please don’t mention this.” He tries to sound threatening. It comes out as a plea. Lestrade chortles again, absolutely tickled.

“You wally,” he says fondly. “Do you want me to splat it anyway?”

“Just- take it away,” Mycroft begs and Lestrade takes kindness on him and thrusts it out of sight into his pocket.

“Is Sherlock scared of spiders too?” He wants to know. Mycroft pauses for thought.

“Clowns,” he offers. Lestrade grins.

“Right, that’s my costume sorted then. Now…” He looks around the office. “I don’t know if there’re any other creepy-crawlies around here so,” he looks a touch shy. “How ‘bout coffee somewhere else.”

Mycroft opens his mouth to say no.

“Yes please.”


	2. Trick or Treat!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill and John go trick or treating a bit far from home and end up knocking on Sherlock's door.

“Bill, we’re not supposed to be down the road this much,” John says, reluctantly. He’s as keen on getting sweets as anyone but one of them has to be sensible and it’s John who’ll get it in the neck if they’re late home.

“Just one more house, come on!” Bill urges. “These people are all rich, they’ll have nice stuff.”

John looks into the carrier bag he’s using to get his sweets and gives in. “Alright, one more. Which one?”

Bill scouts around, looking at the cars and the windows. “I can see people in there and they’ve got kids, let’s try them.”

John adjusts his bandages and together they march briskly to the door and John leans up on tiptoes to jam his finger insistently against the bell.

Bill grins around his fangs and rustles his bag in excitement. The door opens.

“TRICK OR TREAT!”

The other boy stares at them.

Bill glances at John who glances back. “Trick or treat,” Bill insists. The boy looks mildly annoyed.

“Why are you covered in loo roll?”

“I’m a mummy…” John answers, taken aback.

“That’s not real blood,” the boy adds, pointing at Bill’s face. “That’s ice-cream syrup.” Bill touches it self-consciously, his excitement fading fast.

“It was all we had…”

“Look,” John says turning on the other, “That’s not fair. We came in costume. We said ‘trick or treat’, you’ve got to-” the concept of having to explain Halloween to the other boy was too enormous.

“Choose one you mean?” the other asks. “Alright then, trick.”

“No one ever chooses trick.” Bill protests once he’s gotten over his surprise.

“You mean they just give you chocolate for nothing? How stupid.”

“Trick then,” John says, losing his temper and in a wild effort to defend their honour, steps forward to swat the little blue-stocking one on the nose. Unfortunately he treads on a trailing end of toilet paper and goes over instead, flattening the boy to the carpet, butting faces together.

“John!”

John sits up, rubbing his mouth, feeling weird, and scrabbling for his fallen sweets. “I…” the other boy lies looking at the ceiling. “I admit I hadn’t anticipated that.” he sounds vaguely impressed. “Did you mean to bite my chin?”

“Let’s go, Bill, mum’ll be angry.” John tears angrily at his loo roll, shoving it in the bag in disappointment.

“Telephone from our house. Mummy won’t mind,” the boy offers, getting up and dabbing at his chin with interest. “It’s boring anyway. You’ll have to come upstairs if you want a treat. Mycroft hides them all.” 

“I don’t think we can,” John says.”we’re not supposed to go into houses.”

“You’re already in,” the boy points out, now looking in John’s bag. “I’m Sherlock. Can I have one?”

“You can have the drumstick,” John offers, as a peace measure for biting him. 

“Deal,” Sherlock says. “You can have any cake we find.”

“Find? Like a treasure hunt?” Bill asks, stepping in. “Cool!”

“Is it?” Sherlock asks, and then hastily changes his tone. “Yes. Of course.” he brightens. “And I’ve got a dog. And a chemistry set. And a real epee, or I will, anyway. Can I have a costume?”

“It’s your house,” John reminds him, to which Sherlock stalls momentarily.

“I know, i meant, my costume’s upstairs. Hurry up and ring and say you’re playing here for a little bit.”

Against his best instincts, John picks up the phone and lies and tells his mother they’re at a boy from school’s house. Bill looks around, impressed. “What’s your costume?” he asks.  
Sherlock brightens.

“Pirate!” he says.


	3. Pumpkin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly enjoys a Halloween party of her own devising. Magic!

They are three for two in Sainsbury’s, so Molly buys three of the best shaped ones and carts them back home. She’s obliged to stop off at the morgue enroute, which is embarrassing, but Sherlock won’t stop texting her unless she hurries. She leaves them in the corner where Sherlock expresses a mild derisive interest in them. 

“A little old for this kind of tomfoolery, aren’t you?”

Molly gives him a look. This is a man whose flat, whether he’s aware of it or not, is permanently set up for Halloween. Sherlock shifts uneasily under her gaze and realising he’s made that old faux pas of mentioning age to a lady, withers and changes the topic. 

Molly forgives him. She wouldn’t expect him to understand anyway. He’s not credible enough. 

She finishes up and takes her pumpkins home, bumping about on the bus, but they get home unsullied and in one piece. She makes tea, rolls up her sleeves and finds her favourite black-handled knife and sets to work.

It takes time.

The pulp is slimy and tough to clear out, and the flesh of the pumpkin itself is hard. She’s skilled at this though; the art of cutting a lid that vanishes seamlessly when she presses it back into place. Molly sits at the table, sculpting them one by one with eyes, noses and mouths. 

She doesn’t make them scary; they’re here to be friends, not demonic familiars. Nor does she need them to be guardians against the darkness, nor ghoulish emblems of the season. She gives them kind eyes, detailed with eyelids and irises which will show up in a warm glow around the remaining round of vegetable that will form a pupil. The mouths all smile. 

She bases them a little on people she knows. Lestrade with his funny little lopsided smile, which makes her chuckle as she forms it, her fingers staining orange against it’s lips. The second she makes a brave smile; her father’s smile, as she does every year because it’s what her heart remembers best. The last has fuller lips, but the smile itself is restrained and expressed more in the eyes.  
Molly cleans her tools and sets them aside and goes and changes her clothes. Black is traditional, but Molly wears green as a compliment to her company this evening, for they will all be in black and orange and fire.

She sets the pumpkins in her kitchen, dressed and smiling, pours a glass of wine and a dish of salt and speaks softly. Last of all, she draws the curtains tightly shut and lights the candles.

One slim and one tall, and one broad enough to hide behind. The kitchen clock strikes midnight with a little chime and the slim one rises and bows to her. She curtsey’s back. The pumpkin blinks and smiles a wonky smile and offers her a hand made of twists of straw. Molly laughs and takes it. The tall one turns elegantly and finds the thrift-store fiddle with no strings but nonetheless, he makes it sing for her. They tap their feet and the candles flicker and the tiny kitchen is warm and full of music. The broad one hums and waits his turn and Molly’s loose hair flies behind her as they swing from side to side of the room. 

On Halloween night, Molly dances.


	4. Haunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter is really sad and depressing. Post-Reichenbach, John is haunted by Sherlock and had significant trouble with grief. Implied actual character death.

One man falls off a building. His body is consigned to the ground.

John is a man of science just as much as Sherlock had been. He’s willing to credit the world with a lot of things; diseases mistaken for curses and genetically modified animals that come across the wilds of Britain like spectral monsters of a by-gone age. He’s not willing to credit the world with ghosts.  
He stays at 221B after the funeral and the roar of the press dies down to a whisper and finds himself left in this mausoleum to happier times, gathering dust along with the skull and the books and the grief.

It’s a claustrophobic living space never to venture from yet John experiences a growing reluctance to leave. 221B is foreign without Sherlock, but it’s still the most familiar place he knows and he cleaves to it, scuttling out only for the basic essentials to keep him going.   
He starts living more simply. He eats meals from cans, and even the draw of cutlery grows stiff with disuse as he rotates a single fork from mouth to sink to draining board and round again. He stops cooking; it feels like a waste of time. When darkness falls he sleeps, wakes, lies in the dark and then rouses again with the light. Midsummer comes and goes and autumn falls and the flat grows colder and lonelier.

He’s forced out of necessity to maintain the fire. Fuel is cheaper than central heating and he can be more economic with it by thrusting aside the arm chairs and drawing the sofa close towards the hearth. It becomes his home, these few square feet, the sofa, the fire and the mirror on the mantle. 

The rest of the flat is reflected for him, dim in the wavering light of the flames. He lies in a daze, a book unread in his hand and today, like so many other days, he watches for the shape in the mirror. Sometimes it isn’t there but more often than not, he is. He doesn’t speak, nor does he seem to be aware of John exactly, though sometimes he comes close and looks out into the solid half of 221B, his face pale beneath the blood that he’s forgotten since that day, to wash off. John always sits, still as bone, not daring to speak to him. 

And then one night it sees him, and it smiles. Sherlock mouths his name and John, who has been waiting and waiting for him to do it, finally gets up from the sofa. He stands on the hearth, and leans in against the freezing glass and presses his lips to the other man’s lips, and feels at ease because at last he’s come back or else John will fall through to that beautiful other side of the mirror. 

 

His legs are warm from the fire at first. And then unbearably hot.


	5. Costume

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's trying to decide what costume he should wear. John is helping.

“This one.”

“Sherlock that’s just your usual suit.”

“I’m a serial killer. They look normal.”

“No.”

Sherlock huffs and vanishes back into the bedroom. He thumps around for a few minutes more, then emerges again.

“No!” John says in frustration.

“Why not?!” Sherlock wants to know.

“Because ‘serial killer’s victim’ is boring. Go and get one of your disguises, at least.” Sherlock throws his hands up, but obeys. He emerges again having made more effort.

“This one?”

John presses the back of his hand to his mouth and tries not to laugh. Sherlock scowls. “What’s wrong with it?!”  
“Nothing,” John says, pursing his lips. “You just… look like you got rejected from The Village People.”  
Sherlock opens his mouth to argue and then is stymied by the fact he has no idea who The Village People are, or what they have to do with firemen.

“It would do,” John says, now on the verge of a giggle, and Sherlock stomps back to ind another option.

“What then? I need information, John. What makes for a costume?”

John thinks, scratching at his arm. A little white paint flakes off of the skeleton print costume he’s wearing. It should look goofy, but somehow John manages to wear it like a threat. “Something recognisable, first and foremost. I don’t know. There’s options. Like scary is a good idea.”  
“Molly’s going as Little Red Riding hood, I fail to see how that’s scary.”

“Yeah, well the other option is sexy,” John says, thoughtlessly. The bedroom goes quiet and then there’s a flurry of motion for almost twenty minutes before Sherlock emerges again.

“Then this?”

John nearly slips off of the edge of the table he’s leaning against. It’s black. It’s close fitting. It’s a little bit dangerous. “Mm.” he says, trying to find an appropriate comment that doesn’t just involve his tongue hanging out.

“Is that a yes?” Sherlock sounds almost smug. John fumbles for his skull mask and hides his face behind it before Sherlock really does start gloating.

“Yeah,” he says, gruff, “That’s good enough-um.” He trails off as Sherlock saunters out the flat ahead of him.

John exhales, gives his head a little shake to dislodge the bad thoughts and then hastily goes after him.


	6. Old Friend

It’s an accident; just an unfortunate slip. The bolt behind the mirror has, unseen, rusted through and with a sudden bang the whole thing falls, the corner of it punching into the mantle and shattering.

John comes out of the kitchen like he’s been propelled, Sherlock is sat reared up, paralysed with shock in his chair.

“What happened?” John asks, looking back and forth. Sherlock is alarmed and unhurt; John can see it’s nothing he did. Wordlessly, hands shaking, Sherlock moves from the chair, crouching and gathering the broken pieces from the floor.

“Not in bare feet- you’ll cut yours…” John trails off. Sherlock fluttering fingers work between the glass, cradling the smashed bone into the crook of his elbow. “No,” John hears him mutter.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s still stirring the glass looking for fragments. John crouches and catches the pieces falling from his arm. “Sherlock.”  
Sherlock lifts a face to him that is raw with devastation.

“He broke…”

John struggles to know what to do. He’s never seen Sherlock like this. “Ok,” he says gently, “We can fix him. Good as new.”

He brings a bowl from the kitchen and they collect all the pieces of Billy into it, John sweeping the glass from the carpet and from Sherlock’s knees and hands. Sherlock remains quiet throughout. John fetches him glue, worried, and Sherlock takes it, his expression frozen. When John moves to sit at the table and help, he waves him away.

“No. I must do this.”

John spends the afternoon hovering around the living room, watching Sherlock try and piece the skull back together. It was old and dry and shattered into delicate slivers in places. John wants to ask about it, wants to try and offer Sherlock some kind of comfort but he also doesn’t want to pry into something so evidently personal. He holds his silence until Sherlock drops his hands to the table with a heavy thunk and suddenly stops working.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock heaves a heavy sigh. “He’s gone, John.”

“You’re so close to finishing,” John says, moving closer. The skull is zigzagged with fractures, only the crown of the thing remaining to be jigsawed back into place. “Let me help.”

“No,” Sherlock says evenly. He lifts one weary hand and using the full length of his forearm sweeps the whole pile of bone into the bin. “It’s time to call time.”

“Who was he?”

“Just a friend.” Sherlock looks up from the table to where John is still stood anxiously by, and something clears in his expression. “It’s alright, John.” He smooths down the front of his dressing gown. “I forgot myself for a moment. I have… better friends these days.”

John’s face softens.

“It was just a toy,” Sherlock says, a touch embarrassed, but he lets John hug him anyway.


End file.
